kels(dot)blog

(1) I tore apart your wedding bouquet
At the tender age of 9, when you had
sent me to live in the basement
after the wanted children arrived.

You think, I think, that I tore it in anger
or hatred, but I was nine. You said to me,
”You can play with my flowers, if you want”
(As an adult I believe everything is a trap)

Roses hung upside down to dry, reminded me
of a magazine where they made mosaics from the petals.
I thought I might make yours a field of flowers.
I was nine.

Today my dog ate through my favourite jacket
and I cried and cried and yelled but I
did not hit my dog or slam her head into a wall.
How easy it was.

I tore apart your wedding bouquet
at the tender age of 9.
Karma, karma, karma
you frigid bitch.

–

(2) I’m not proud
of how I deal with you
in my mind. I beat you
I beat the shit out of you
again and again. And again
with jagged nails
claws, and bloodied teeth
tearing at your eyes,
your hair, ripping out chunks and
delighting in your gargled
fucking cries.

–

(3) If I could spit on you in a poem
I wouldn’t waste the paper.